


Gunfight

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin (Kingsman) Lives, Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-19 04:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13696641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: A stubborn Scot and a ham-fisted Englishman...It was never always going to be plain sailing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by [winchester54](https://winchester54.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, who wanted an argument, or a break up, or both.

At the knock, Harry looks up from the laptop he’s tapping away at one-fingered and calls for his visitor to enter. Truth be told, he’s glad of the distraction. He’s never been much good at paperwork and politics.

“Ah, Merlin!” He isn’t really surprised, but the sight of his wizard will never fail to bring a smile to his face. Even more so now. “Come in.”

“I have those reports you wanted.” Merlin’s brandishing his clipboard and it could almost be _before_. Almost. Merlin’s gait isn’t as smooth as it used to be as he joins Harry at the desk, his steps still a little unsteady, uncertain. It’s to be expected, really, but Harry’s heart always stutters at the sight, an odd blend of guilt, regret, and sheer bloody relief that the man is there at all.

“Excellent.” If Merlin notices Harry pointedly not staring he doesn’t show it. Harry knows what that’s like, has seen the way people often hurriedly glance away when he catches them staring at his eye. It’s human nature, and bloody infuriating. Still, he can’t help but notice that Merlin stands just that little bit more rigidly than usual as he places his clipboard down in front of Harry and straightens again.

Harry inclines his head toward the spare chair. “Sit down.”

Merlin doesn’t move. A perfectly crafted stone statue. “Thank you, I’ll stand.”

Harry frowns and looks at the display of the clipboard, the neat tabs inviting him to click into the full list of shared Statesman assets sent over by Whiskey, the summaries of every report filed by Galahad and Tequila, the shortlist of potential new safe houses each with a rundown of their pros and cons and resulting security score, a full compilation of all their remaining tech and weaponry plus the current status of every new project being worked on in the newly reinstated R&D department with annotated schematics…there’s more, but Harry stops. It’s so much more than he’d asked for, than he’d expected.

It’s a lot of work, and instinct plus thirty odd years’ acquaintance tells Harry that Merlin will have done the majority of it himself.

He looks at Merlin, _really_ looks. His expression is familiar, the inscrutable mask he wears when around other people with the exception, usually, of Harry, but there’s more there to see; the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the way the muscles are bunched at his jaw, the tense set of his shoulders, and he’s trying hard not to let Harry see beneath the surface.

“Problem?” he asks, and Harry recognises it as an attempt to divert his attention back to the reports.

“Not at all, this is perfect.” Harry smiles because he is, as ever, impressed and grateful despite his mind currently being elsewhere. “But I can’t concentrate with you looming over me like that.” He waves a hand at the chair. “Please.”

There’s a flicker behind his eyes, almost undetectable. “Harry…”

“ _Hamish_.”

Anyone else might have wilted under the glare Merlin levels at Harry, but Harry doesn’t waver. There’s a brief standoff and Harry thinks for a moment that Merlin is going to deny him through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. But then he sighs, his eyes falling shut, and when he speaks he’s finally allowing the cracks to show.

“If I sit down, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get up again.”

“Which is the point I was very subtly trying to make.” To Harry’s relief, Merlin finally sits down, lowering himself gingerly into the chair. His hand goes to his thigh and rubs, fingers kneading the muscle, and Harry isn’t certain he’s aware he’s doing it. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Merlin. You know you should be limiting your use of the prosthetics at the moment.”

The glare returns, albeit a little weary this time. “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Harry.”

“You’re in pain.”

“I’m always in fucking pain!” He’s angry now. At Harry for bringing up the subject of his perceived weakness, at his own limitations. At what he mistakenly fears is pity in Harry’s eye. “Sitting at home staring at the walls isn’t gonnae change that.”

Harry knows the anger stems from frustration and for once _he_ is the one called upon to be the voice of reason. “You need to rest, give yourself chance to heal.” Harry would give anything to ease Merlin’s pain and why can’t the damned mule-headed fool let him? “I know you disregarded your doctor’s advice and discharged yourself early.”

That was a mistake. Merlin’s eyes narrow, his lips press into a hard line. He’s unhappy. “Been reading my medical file, have you?”

Merlin has always been a private man, and Harry has always respected that. Until now. And of course Merlin refuses to see it for what it is; not prying, but investigation with the best of intentions. “I’m responsible for the welfare of all Kingsman employees now, so yes, I have.”

And just like that, Merlin’s expression shutters, his gaze darkening. It’s a look Harry knows well, but not one he’s used to having directed at himself.

“And that’s what I am to you, is it?” His voice is free from inflection and that makes it all the more ominous. “A member of staff?”

Harry takes a breath, reins in the temper that’s threatening to flare. “You know that’s not what I meant. I was concerned you had come back to work too soon—”

“You fucking hypocrite.” It’s easy to see why so many Kingsman candidates are afraid of Merlin, but it’s not fear Harry feels as the full force of Merlin’s dark glare strikes him, but a growing irritation at his belligerence. “I know you still get headaches. And how many times have you been injured and jumped straight back into the field?”

It’s not the same thing and Harry glares right back. “A bullet wound or broken arm is hardly comparable—”

“No. So don’t presume to tell me what’s best for me because you have no _fucking idea_.”

“When it comes to taking care of yourself, your track record is fucking poor.” Harry knows he’s getting louder. He can’t help it. “How many times have you gone forty-odd hours or more without sleep or sustenance?”

He raises his chin, defensive. “It’s never affected my work.”

Merlin’s work has always been exemplary, that has never been in question. But that’s not where Harry’s concern lies, and damn the man for thinking that it is. He recalls all the times he made the trip to the lab, to Merlin’s desk, bringing tea and biscuits and bugging the bastard to take a break, refusing to leave until the plate was empty, dragging him to bed and insisting he get at least a few hours sleep.

No, it has never affected his work, but Harry has always made sure it hasn’t affected his health, either.

“You need to slow down.” Harry refuses to yield, determined to make his point. And if Merlin refuses to budge, he’ll just have to force the issue. “I'll make that an order if I have to.”

Merlin reacts as if Harry has just punched him in the face. He recoils in shock, disbelief, and then almost snarls. “You wouldn’t dare.”

It’s a challenge and they stare at each other in the ensuing silence, each waiting for the other to back down and neither giving an inch. The problem is, Merlin has the upper hand. He knows Harry is reluctant to issue that order, and Harry knows how futile it would be to do so. And he can’t do it, he can’t take away the thing that’s keeping Merlin from going crazy as he fights to put himself back together, and it infuriates him that Merlin can’t see that that’s not what he’s trying to do.

A full minute passes, and when Harry says nothing more Merlin claims his victory.

“I’m going back to work.”

He pushes himself up from the chair, hands braced on the desk for support, but as he shifts his full weight to his legs he almost buckles, his grimace betraying the sudden wave of pain. Harry’s at his side in an instant, hands reaching out to steady him, only for Merlin to wrench free from his hold.

“Don’t,” he hisses, and Harry really does want to punch him now, the stubborn fucker.

“Stop being such a bloody martyr!”

Harry is saved from Merlin’s no doubt ferocious retort by a brief knock followed swiftly by the door of his office flying open.

“Hey, Harry, I—”

Eggsy draws up short as if slapped in the face by the frosty atmosphere, eyes the two men with wary caution.

Harry doesn’t break eye contact with Merlin. They’re not finished. “Give us a minute, please, Eggsy.”

“No, it’s fine, come in, Eggsy. We’re done here.” Merlin has clearly decided otherwise and he’s daring Harry to argue when he knows full well Harry would never do so in front of their young protégé. “I have work to do.”

Harry watches, fuming, as Merlin leaves, his stride marred by a limp. He pulls the door shut behind him and it’s not quite a slam but it’s firm enough to signal an end to their argument with indisputable finality.

Caught somewhere between fury, frustration, and despair, Harry glares at the door and grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches, and Eggsy is astute enough to say nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

“What’s goin’ on with you and Merlin?”

Eggsy doesn’t think his question really warrants the glower Harry bestows upon him but he’s not going to let it deter him now. This feud, whatever it is, is becoming ridiculous, and he just can’t ignore it any longer.

“I mean,” he continues, expounding on his thoughts despite Harry’s silent glare, “you two are normally joined at the hip, and now you ain’t even speaking to each other.”

Harry’s frown deepens and Eggsy remembers how scary a pissed off Harry Hart can be. “It is difficult to engage in discourse with somebody who refuses to listen.”

That sounds more like _Harry_ , in Eggsy’s opinion, not Merlin. “Listen to what?”

Harry’s fist slams onto the desktop, a harsh thud that punctuates his bark. “Sense!”

Eggsy almost flinches at the sudden flare of anger. It just doesn’t make sense; Harry and Merlin never fight. Argue, sure. Bicker? All the fucking time. But never with malice. There’s always an undercurrent of affection, a playful teasing that testifies to their mutual regard.

And a million miles away from whatever it was Eggsy walked in on last week.

“But surely you can work it out, right?” he presses. “I thought you two were…”

“You thought we were what?” And Eggsy thinks there’s a trap there, that Harry’s inviting him to say the wrong thing. _Friends_ would be the obvious description, but that doesn’t feel sufficient, doesn’t encompass the true extent of their relationship. They’ve known each other, been a _unit_ , since before Eggsy was even born, and maybe it runs deeper than friendship, maybe not.

Either way, there’s one answer Eggsy knows to be the absolute truth.

“Solid.”

Harry sighs, and he’s sad now, the anger dissipating into something less fierce but just as infuriated. “Yes. Well. Looks can be deceiving.”

“For fuck’s sake, this is stupid!” Eggsy’s explosion leaves Harry momentarily speechless, and before he can recover Eggsy continues. “You’re behaving like a couple of kids.” And when did Eggsy become the mature one? “Stop being idiots and just talk!”

“When Merlin decides to take his head out of his arse—”

Eggsy releases his breath in a harsh exhale, fighting the urge to tug on his hair in frustration. “You’re impossible,” he snaps and shoves away from the desk and at least Harry seems to be listening now. Eggsy grew up surrounded by tension, and is sick of it. All it achieves is to make everyone miserable and he’d thought Harry above it all. “You’re both _alive_ , and surely that’s more important than a stupid argument. Sort it, yeah?”

Harry says nothing, and Eggsy hopes it’s because some sense is finally sinking in. They’ve already been torn apart, almost to destruction, and the last thing they need is another rift creating new wounds.

Halfway out the door, Eggsy stops at the sound of his name, devoid of all anger now, and when he turns back there’s a softness creeping into Harry’s expression.

“Look in on him for me, would you?”

Eggsy feels a flicker of hope. There’s concern in Harry’s tone and perhaps all is not lost. “Yeah, ’course, bruv.”

* * * *

“Merlin, mate, how’s it goin’?”

Undiscouraged by the lack of a response, Eggsy invites himself into Merlin’s office-cum-workroom, props his arse on the edge of Merlin’s desk, and picks up one of the… _things_ Merlin’s engrossed in fiddling with. It’s plucked from his hand a moment later.

“Don’t touch.”

Eggsy relinquishes the gadget without protest, holds his hands up to demonstrate how he’s not touching. Obeying Merlin has become second nature, and right now he’s on a mission.

“What you working on?”

“Re-establishing our communications network.”

There’s no further explanation as Merlin is deep in concentration, deft fingers making a couple of adjustments before tapping a command into his computer. A few seconds, then there’s a beep that must mean something good because Merlin’s smiling and that’s something Eggsy hasn’t seen for far too long.

“It’s going well, then?”

“Aye, everything’s online and transmitting.” He starts typing again, fingers flying too fast for Eggsy to follow. “Now I’ll just run some checks to locate any faults or weak spots.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” Eggsy has absolute faith in Merlin’s skills, has witnessed his brilliance on more than one occasion. It’s when Merlin leans back in his chair, stretches a little and rolls his shoulders, that Eggsy is reminded that it’s not Merlin’s work that's in question. There’s a wince, and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and Eggsy doesn’t miss that brief flash of discomfort, nor the greyish pallor of his skin.

He aims for nonchalance as he asks, “An’ you?”

“What about me?”

“How are _you_ doing?”

Merlin’s eyes narrow in suspicion and Eggsy obviously hasn’t pulled it off. “Harry sent you.” It’s not a question.

“Nah…” Eggsy’s instant denial dies on his lips at the thunderous look on Merlin’s face. “Yeah, okay, he did. But only ’cause he’s worried about you.”

Merlin scoffs. “Bastard thinks he knows best, you mean. He needs to mind his own damn affairs and leave me be.”

“He ain’t—”

Merlin cuts Eggsy’s defence of Harry off before it can begin. “Go on back and make your report. Tell Arthur I am fine and that I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

Eggsy doesn’t miss the switch from _Harry_ to _Arthur_ , nor the inflection Merlin gives the name, full of wrath. He’s about to say something about how they’re both being sodding idiots, but Merlin’s fingers curl tightly around a screwdriver and Eggsy thinks better of it.

“Just…let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

That gives Merlin pause, and maybe he realises he’s taking his anger out on the wrong person because his scowl recedes a little and he manages a grateful smile.

“Aye. Thank you.”

* * * *

Despite the minor thawing, the two stubborn fuckers still refuse to talk, and no, a couple of impersonal emails definitely do _not_ count. Eggsy is beginning to wonder if locking them in a room together is a valid option, or whether he’d just be initiating World War Three.

Ever since reporting back that Merlin was _the usual—growly, vaguely menacing, and pissed at you_ , Eggsy has been enduring a Harry Hart who alternates between miserable sulking and tetchy ill temper, and a Merlin who barely emerges from his office.

But it’s how they both so obviously miss each other that is most exasperating.

And one evening, on his way back from a late sparring session with Tequila, Eggsy sees the light still glowing in Merlin’s office and decides enough is enough. He’s given them space and nothing has changed, and if they’re not going to sort it themselves, then it seems it’s up to him to give them a push. The bloke is damn well going to go home, have a civilised conversation, throw in an apology, and kiss and make up. Even if it kills him.

But when Eggsy opens the door, he fears something else has already done the job.

Merlin is slumped on the floor, half propped against the wall, head bowed in a way that suggests all his strength has fled. Eggsy skids across the floor and drops to his knees at Merlin’s side, relieved as fuck when the bloke turns his head and blinks blearily at him.

“Merlin, mate, what the fuck?” Eggsy gingerly touches Merlin’s wrist and his skin is clammy and he’s burning up but shivering. Eggsy might not be a doctor but it’s obvious he’s in a bad way, and why had they allowed Merlin to hide himself away? In his panic, there’s one solution that comes immediately to mind, the one thing it’s paramount to do. “I’m gonna call Harry.”

“No!” Merlin’s grip is surprisingly strong around his biceps, his dull eyes beseeching, and there’s more important things to worry about right now than a stupid fight, first and foremost getting Merlin medical help. So Eggsy nods, agrees.

“Okay, no Harry.” It’s a necessary compromise if he’s going to get Merlin to cooperate. “But we need to getcha to a doctor.” Their new infirmary is already well equipped and always manned, and the quickest option. The immediate problem is finding a way to get Merlin there short of throwing him over his shoulder. “Can you walk?”

Merlin glares down at his legs, as if trying to coerce them into action through sheer force of will. As reluctant as he is to admit defeat, he eventually shakes his head.

Eggsy pulls out his phone, which earns him a suspicious squint. He almost rolls his eyes but the gravity of the situation has him hurrying to reassure Merlin. “I'm just calling someone to come an’ help.”

Resigned to his plight, and too weak to argue, Merlin lets him get on with it, and when one of the medical team appears with a wheelchair and helps Eggsy gently lift him in, he doesn’t even make a token protest.

Pacing anxiously outside the infirmary doors, Eggsy manages to respect Merlin’s wishes for all of half an hour before he caves and calls Harry.


	3. Chapter 3

The door clicks open and Merlin rolls his head on the pillow toward the sound, expecting Eggsy.

When he sees Harry standing in the doorway instead his heart gives a lurch before settling back into weary irritation.

“If you’re here to say I told you so, I’ll come over there, legs or no, and punch you into next week.”

Harry holds up his hands, hoisting the metaphorical white flag. “Please let’s not fight.”

With a sigh, Merlin sinks back into his pillow, relieved. He doesn't have the energy for a fight and, if he’s being completely honest with himself, he’s glad to see Harry. The man might drive him to distraction, but life without him has been horribly empty.

Still, he’s not quite ready to completely let his guard down. And he’s going to have to have words with Eggsy.

“Don’t be angry with Eggsy. He was worried.” It really shouldn't be a surprise that Harry can read his mind. They’ve been so close for so long, until the past few weeks. “As was I.”

Harry’s still over by the door, as if unsure of his welcome, and Merlin hates the distance that’s grown between them. He extends a hand, silently beckoning Harry closer, an olive branch. Harry hesitates only a moment, and then he’s there, perching on the edge of the bed, grasping Merlin’s hand in both of his, and the concern is clear in the lines of his face.

“I’m okay.”

That isn’t entirely true, and Harry knows it. The infection has taken a lot out of him, compounded by the long hours, too little rest, and a single-minded determination to ignore his own health in favour of work.

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin looks up at Harry in surprise. An apology from Harry Hart is a rare entity at any time, and this particular one is not at all warranted.

“I’m the one should be apologising,” Merlin counters. “For being such a stubborn arse and refusing to listen.”

“I shouldn’t have nagged. I know you hate being fussed over.”

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate your concern, because I do.” He’s long accustomed to people not giving a fuck, but Harry’s different. It had taken Merlin a while to get used to being the subject of such genuine regard, and it’s still something that regularly astonishes him. “I was determined to prove that nothing had changed, that I’m still capable of doing everything I could before.”

He’s admitting it to himself as much as Harry.

“No one’s in any doubt that you’re still the same brilliant genius you’ve always been, but some things _have_ changed,” Harry says gently, wary of stoking the flames again. But Merlin can’t argue with the truth. “Nobody will think any less of you for using your chair occasionally.”

“I don’t care what people think.” He’s never been a vain man. All he requires is enough respect that the agents listen to him when their lives are at stake. And yes, maybe to instil a little fear in the cadets, but that, in the end, is for their own sakes.

“So stop being such a stubborn bastard.” There’s no heat behind the reprimand this time, only affection coupled with a fond smile. But then Harry grows sombre. “I’ve lost you once, I couldn’t bear to do so again.”

That feeling is familiar, painfully so, and Merlin squeezes Harry’s hand, a reminder they are both there, alive. Now he looks at Harry properly he sees the toll fear has taken on him. It’s barely noticeable behind his typical immaculate appearance, but to Merlin it’s as plain as day and he remembers how difficult it had been to hold himself together when he’d believed Harry dead and it suddenly hits him. He’s been selfish.

“I’m sorry.” It’s almost a whisper, his voice trapped behind the lump in his throat. 

Harry smiles. “You’re forgiven, so long as I am, too.” Merlin swallows thickly and nods and just like that all the tension lifts, the air left clear. Harry looks as relieved as Merlin feels. “When they let you out of here, you’ll come home, won’t you?”

“Aye. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course. Just please promise to take better care of yourself. I’ll even try to stop nagging.”

“I promise. And I won’t bite your head off when you need to remind me.”

“That’s a relief. I’m quite fond of my head.”

For the first time in a long while, Merlin hears himself laugh. “So am I.”

Harry’s knuckles are gentle against Merlin’s cheek, his kiss just as soft. In all likelihood, they’ll be arguing about something else next week, but there’s nothing they can’t weather, despite being a pair of stubborn old fools.

**Author's Note:**

> Like Eggsy, I hate to see these guys fight. Writing it was harder than I thought it would be!
> 
> Title is taken from Laurence Fox's song of the same name.


End file.
